


Cracks Slip Between My Desire

by just_kiss_already



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Coming In Pants, Crying, Dirty Talk, Don't Like Don't Read, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Incest, M/M, Manipulation, Mention of restraints, Obsession, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parent/Child Incest, Phone Sex, Possessive Behavior, Serial Killers, Shower Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, this show is something else man, ugh I’m sorry but honestly not really that sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2020-12-23 21:28:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21088109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_kiss_already/pseuds/just_kiss_already
Summary: Malcolm visits his father.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is symphony no 7 in a major, allegretto. It actually is in the show when Jessica has the kids over for dinner.

Malcolm can hear the quiet strains of Beethoven coming from headphones discarded on his father’s desk. The confining walls of the cell vanish as his focus narrows down to the sounds of woodwinds and strings. Gentle music. Familiar from his childhood, drifting out of the basement, out of his father’s hobby room. Even now, his mother favors this song, likely unaware of how often she picks it over other symphonies.

A touch startles him out of his head. A conciliatory hand at his elbow. Malcolm freezes, he did not realize how far he stepped over the red line on the floor. His father looms over him and Malcolm is afraid to look. What if he’s angry? Or worse, what if he’s turned into the monster everyone says he is, the monster Malcolm only knows from reports and never faced in person? 

“Son?” Martin asks, voice low and full of warmth, and Malcolm is dizzied by how abruptly his fear dissipates in the face of comforting familiarity. His father even wears the same cologne. Nothing has changed. He’s a child again. For a minute, he is certain that Martin will declare it’s bedtime as his mind supplies the tactile memory of his father’s arms around him, carrying him up the stairs. 

Martin’s other hand wraps around Malcolm’s forearm and he is brought back to the present by the clinking of the handcuffs. He knows he should be reeling back, running, escaping, but instead he forces himself to look into the face of his father. 

There is nothing terrifying there. No monster. Just unruly graying hair and eyes full of the tenderest love and concern. 

In desperation, Malcolm runs through the checklist of a predatory sociopath in his mind. Lying, manipulation, lack of empathy. Cruelty. He reminds himself this man is dangerous. This man is a serial killer. This man does not love him. 

It feels like love, though. The force of Martin’s full attention is overwhelming, the world and everything in it lessened by that intensity. They are perfectly alone. The moment stretches.

Malcolm tries to memorize everything. The kind smile curling the corners of his mouth, wrinkling the corners of his eyes. The gentle squeeze on his arm.

“Everything all right?” Martin finally asks, ever so softly.

Malcolm blinks and the moment threatens to shatter. “Yeah,” he replies, lowering his head. He feels the heat prickling his eyes and pressure building behind them, and he’s ashamed. Their first physical contact in ten years and it’s reduced him to this. 

“Oh,” Martin says in that special tone of voice reserved for parents whose children are upset. Comforting but patronizing. “Oh, my boy, my poor boy.” He takes a half step forward and uses his grip on Malcolm’s elbow to pull him closer. 

Unable or maybe unwilling to resist, Malcolm shuffles sideways and leans against his father’s broad chest with his shoulder. Deep inside a part of himself begs for more, for a real hug however unlikely with the cuffs, but Malcolm shoves that wish down even further. He tries to mentally recite the names of his father’s victims, but there’s nothing but Beethoven and static. 

Martin bows his head, resting it on top of Malcolm’s; his mouth is right next to the younger man’s ear. When he speaks, his breath is warm. “Everything will be better now, son.”

Malcolm can’t find the strength to laugh. He’s paralyzed with exhaustion. When was the last time he slept? It’s catching up. This feels like a dream. A real dream, not a night terror for once. 

“I’ve missed you so much, Malcolm,” Martin sighs in a passionate rush. “My boy, my clever, beautiful boy.” He presses a kiss behind his ear on that thin delicate skin, then another on the soft curve of his ear’s helix. 

“Stop,” Malcolm whispers, though he’s not sure if he’s protesting the verbal or the physical affection more.

The grip on his elbow is bordering on painfully tight. “It’s must have been so hard.” Martin’s other hand squeezes the muscle of Malcolm’s forearm again. “You’ve done so well, I am so proud of you.”

Something in Malcolm, a long-ignored ache, unfurls and turns warm and thick in his belly, a low heavy heat. A fresh wave of tears threatens and before he has time to stop himself, he turns and buries his face in his father’s shoulder. Martin stiffens in shock but recovers quickly enough, rubbing his cheek over his son’s hair. His bound hands rest on Malcom’s stomach, gently petting. “Stop,” Malcolm pleads, breath hitching with repressed sobs. It’s a token resistance. He doesn’t want Martin to stop. It’s unfair, he shouldn’t feel this peaceful, this shouldn’t be the only place he feels this serene. 

“Shh,” Martin hushes with a kiss on the crown of Malcom’s head. “It will be better now, I can help you. Don’t you worry, my boy.” With his nose, Martin nudges Malcolm’s face up. He sees the younger man’s tear tracks and smiles indulgently. “Oh, here now, no more of that. I’ve got you. Dad’s got you.”

Malcolm looks at his father through blurry eyes. There is a dam inside holding back a million unspoken words, a million secrets and confessions from the most hidden places inside of himself.

Malcolm’s cellphone buzzes in his pocket. The dam holds.

Stepping back, he rubs at his eyes and cheeks, taking deep, steadying breaths.

“No, Malcolm-“ Martin follows but reaches the end of his tether, his face contorting with grief and anxiety and anger. “Don’t go again.”

The real world is beckoning. Gil. A spasm of adrenaline brought by guilt racks through Malcolm, waking him up. If Gil knew, oh god if he knew. He thinks of the security system, the guard, the possibility of tapes. What it must have looked like. His mother might see them. Gil might see them. What will they say...

Malcolm is struck with the inexplicable need to scrub his mouth with the back of his hand. Instead he pauses as if to speak only to find there is nothing to say. His expression must say enough, though, because Martin smiles suddenly, muscles relaxing. They don’t need to talk. It’s understood. Malcolm can’t stay away, not anymore. 

Without even a goodbye, Malcolm walks out the door, answering his phone as he makes his way down the hall. “Hi, Gil,” he says, wincing at how guilty he sounds to himself. “New case?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> recommended song: gymnopédie no 1
> 
> thank you for the comments and kudos!!! you don’t know how much it means to me
> 
> this is a bit short  
an interlude I guess? I really love Gil okay

Not a new case. An ultimatum.

Gil is already pulling up to the front doors of the prison as Malcolm walks out. Before even picking up the phone, Gil had a suspicion about where he might be, more than just a lucky guess.

Sliding into Gil’s black car, Malcolm can’t help the little sigh of relief that escapes him even knowing an argument is brewing. He’s been riding in this car for years now, it smells of leather protector and Gil’s aftershave. The seam of the seat on the right hand side is long worn away from years of Malcolm’s fingers anxiously toying with it. The backseat is full of the detritus of a lieutenant’s life on the go, but also including some of Malcolm’s things: a sweater, a graded paper or two, an unfinished novel with a scrap of napkin as the bookmark. This is a familiar and safe place.

The engine grumbles and the car shivers and they’re rolling away into the evening, away from what happened, this new secret between Malcolm and his father.

A hand on the back of his neck, a familiar touch, and Malcolm welcomes it. It grounds him. “I’m worried about you, kid,” Gil says, kneading Malcolm’s neck even as he drives. “This isn’t good for you.”

Malcolm can’t help but scoff. “Not much is.” The kneading pauses and Malcolm almost begs. He can’t help being flippant, he doesn’t mean to be, he knows Gil is trying to have an honest conversation with him. Without the levity, he would have to face too much. He tries again. “I’m okay, really.”

“I saw you coming out of there. You’re not okay.”

Malcolm can’t figure out what to say. Every word seems dangerous. It all leads to conversations he isn’t willing to have. 

Glancing over at the younger man, Gil frowns. “Listen, city boy, I know you think you’ve got everything under control, but you look like shit. You look worse than when you went off to Harvard.”

That had been a bad time. Switching therapists, still trying to sort out the correct balance of meds, and moving away from his support network. A perfect storm. Gil and Jackie had considered renting an apartment near Cambridge. 

Malcolm touches his ear, fingers the shell of it, remembers the scratch of a beard. It comforts him the way Gil’s hand on his neck does. “I don’t know what to say to convince you everything is fine.”

“I shouldn’t have pushed you to go back,” Gil says softly, sadly.

Malcolm’s heart breaks. He doesn’t know what to do. If he’s honest with himself, everything is not fine. He feels completely out of control. Decisions have been made and he’s had no part in making them. How can he possibly tell Gil that not going back would destroy him. If Malcolm was in control of his life, Gil wouldn’t be making that face right now, the lines of worry and heartache deep on his handsome face in the light of the streetlights as they flicker on. 

They don’t speak again as Gil escorts him up to his apartment. As if afraid Malcolm might turn and run off to his father. Perhaps not an unreasonable fear. 

Malcolm is exhausted but a good host. “Want a drink?”

Gil locks the front door and turns to Malcolm, crossing his arms over his chest. “I want you to get to bed. I mean it. Take your meds and change and get in, kid.”

Under his surrogate father’s eyes, Malcolm runs through his nighttime routine. This feels familiar, too, and despite everything he smiles, feeling indulged. As he brushes his teeth, his eyelids start to fall and he realizes he honestly is exhausted. Climbing into bed, he pulls up the sheets and holds out his arms the way he did as a child. Gil perches on the edge of the bed and takes one of the soft leather cuffs, wrapping them lovingly around the younger man’s wrists, buckling them, making sure they’re not too tight before hooking them to the straps. 

“Kid-“ Gil starts, refusing to meet Malcolm’s eyes, instead focusing on the other strap. “Don’t see him again. Don’t go back.”

Malcolm studies the man sitting beside him. Kind, gentle. Warm, loving hands, petting Malcolm’s forehead, pushing the hair out of his eyes. He remembers the feel of his father’s lips on his face, his hands on his stomach, his voice low and stirring. He remembers the way warmth spread through his body at the contact, the way his heart sped at the praise. The way he wanted more... And he wants to say, help me not go back. Please, god, help, help me. Stay, he wants to say. 

Instead, Malcolm opens his mouth for the guard and watches from lowered eyelashes as Gil lets himself out, locking the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> recommended song: Goldberg variations bwv 988 by Bach

Malcolm stands at the doors leading to his father’s cell and watches through the window. 

At his desk, Martin sits, bent over, working methodically in one of his many, many journals. The curved line of his back, the slope of his shoulders, suggests calm. Tranquility. His hands move steadily, the anatomy sketches taped to the wall in front of him attest to that, flawless enough to be textbook illustrations. 

The guards had offered to handcuff Martin, but it seemed ridiculous. If he wanted his son dead, there was plenty of opportunity last time.

Malcolm’s mind skitters away from the half-formed thought that perhaps he would have welcomed it.

He opens the door and Martin’s head lifts, turns, brows and mouth downturned in irritation at the intrusion. The moment he sees Malcolm, however, his face smooths out into a pleased expression, his grin widening until it shows too much teeth, almost feral. Malcolm’s stomach twists and his lungs feel tight. Perhaps this is a bad idea. Perhaps Gil will come get him. Perhaps mother will send her driver. His left hand trembles, his right twitches towards his cellphone. 

“My boy,” Martin says, sounding so proud as if he wants to announce it to the world. Malcolm can’t fathom what he could be proud of. So far, everything he’s touched has turned to ashes. His personal life, his career. He even failed as a son, one that turned his back on his father. It doesn’t seem to matter, however, because Martin stands and holds his arms out, an invitation. His eyes are bright in the perpetual gloom of his cage, shining with that intensity Malcolm remembers from their last visit. “I’ve missed you. Now come here.”

Malcolm’s feet act on their own, carry him forward. He’s craved this for so long. Safe in his father’s embrace again.

Arms fold around him, drawing him close. He’s buried in his father, surrounded, caged. This should be frightening, Malcolm reminds himself. His heart is racing, he is afraid, but he has no desire to run. Tentatively he raises his hands, rests them on Martin’s upper arms, the cardigan soft beneath his fingers.

“I’ve waited twenty years to do this,” Martin tells him. “Isn’t this better? A real hug. Just us.” He squeezes, crushing Malcolm to his broad chest, and strokes the younger man’s hair. Malcolm listens to the thunderous heart under his ear, hypnotized by it; his hands slide, circling his father’s back, clutching fistfuls of his sweater. Clinging. Leaning his head down, Martin speaks softly, like he’s imparting a secret. “You know, when you were born, I took you in my arms and immediately knew you were mine. I didn’t want to give you back. I knew right then and there, I would do anything for you.”

Malcolm wonders if it’s true. His father is pathologically manipulative and untruthful, maybe he just knows Malcolm wants to hear. 

Martin unwraps one arm and lifts his son’s face off of his chest, peering down into his pale eyes. “You look so unwell,” he sighs. “Poor thing. All these years apart and look what’s happened.” He clucks his tongue in disappointment, and shame makes Malcolm drop his eyes to the side and blush, fighting an urge to make excuses.

A kiss to his temple. Another to his cheekbone. Lips still brushing Malcolm’s skin, Martin whispers, “let me take care of you, sweetheart.”

The term of endearment sends a sick thrill through Malcolm. His heart jumps erratically in his chest, his hands and feet feel like ice even as a thick heat fills the rest of his body. His father has never called him that before. “Doctor-“ he starts, but Martin interrupts, sliding his face closed to Malcolm’s ear, rubbing his beard against his cheek in the process, abrasive. 

“No more of that, not any longer, you understand?”

Malcolm nods, then whispers back, “yes.” His reward is a kiss below his ear; Malcolm tilts his head ever so slightly away, making room. Baring his neck. He licks his lips, working up his nerve. “Dad...” Teeth scrape against his skin and Malcolm realizes he’s hard.

He knew where this was leading but it’s still shameful, it feels like his body is betraying him and it makes his knees weak with panic, makes his eyes burn with the beginning of tears. Even as his legs give way and the world spins, dizziness making him gasp, Martin keeps him upright, holding tight, frighteningly strong. The rapidly diminishing part of his mind that rails against this reminds him that Martin would have to be strong to kill all those people, a paralyzed or dead body can be shockingly heavy. Then Martin bites Malcolm’s neck, hard, and all misgivings fade in the light of the blinding pain.

Malcolm whimpers, he can’t help it, it hurts so much, even as his dick throbs. His tears spill over, running down his cheeks. Martin immediately stops biting, kissing the tender spot. “I couldn’t help it,” he says, chuckling ruefully. “I just... I just can’t help myself. Oh, my boy, you are so beautiful. So special to me.”

Without even remembering moving, Malcolm becomes dimly aware of being pressed against a bookcase, Martin’s left arm around his waist, still supporting him. “What-“ He’s silenced by a kiss. A real kiss, passionate and even a bit frantic.

He immediately opens his mouth, gives his father access. Eagerly. 

Martin’s free hand pulls Malcolm’s shirt out from his slacks, slides under the dark blue fabric, fingertips ghosting along the skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake. They brush Malcolm’s nipple and he shudders.

“Rest your head on my shoulder, sweetheart,” Martin instructs. “Just relax, let dad help you.”

A hand brushes the front of his slacks then cups his erection and Malcolm jerks like he’s been electrocuted. He sobs once, burying his face in Martin’s neck as instructed. The hand squeezes and begins to gently rub.

“I- I can’t,” Malcolm stutters. “Please, dad...”

“Oh, Malcolm,” Martin interrupts. His voice is low and dark and Malcolm knows in his guts it’s not a voice many have heard and lived. “I love you, I just want you to feel better. You’ve wanted this for so long, haven’t you, son?”

Malcolm flinches. 

“It’s okay,” Martin promises. “I’ve wanted this, too.” He rubs a little faster with his palm, a little harder. “Let it out, it’s okay, Malcolm, you just let me help you.”

“I’m-“ Malcolm gasps through his tears. “I can’t... I’m-“ Heat builds, the world narrows. Muscles tense. The smell of his father’s cologne. The sound of his father’s rapid breathing. The feel of his father supporting him. “Ah- I, d-... dad!” He wraps both arms around Martin’s neck as he comes, hanging on, and Martin showers his tear-streaked face with kisses. He’s exhausted, wrung out, but he still wants more, so Malcolm slides a hand down the front of his father’s jumpsuit, but Martin catches his wrist.

Martin smiles indulgently. “Not today, sweetheart, today is just about you.” He strokes Malcolm’s sweaty hair back from his forehead, wipes away the younger man’s tears tenderly with his thumb. “Now, I have a suspicion someone is going to sleep pretty well tonight, huh? And guess what?” He whispers directly into Malcolm’s ear, “tonight daddy is going to think about you.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> music: Vivaldi’s four seasons, Concerto No. 2 in G minor, Op. 8, RV 315, "Summer,” III. Presto. 
> 
> Short but I hope the sexiness makes up for it?? ? ????? ??

Malcolm has just noticed a particularly interesting mushroom growth by the corpse’s right ear when his phone rings. His gaze meets Edrisa’s, her brows raise and cheeks flush from the eye contact.

Stepping away from the crime scene, ignoring Gil’s quizzical look, Malcolm looks at his screen. Unknown number. Lightning bolt down his spine at the thought of who might be at the other end. His finger hovers over the ignore button, however. He’s at work, talking to Martin would be... improper. He’s managed to go an entire day without speaking to his father, though if he’s honest with himself it had more to do with getting caught up in the latest case. Still, it makes him feel better, pretending he can resist the allure, pretending he’s not drawn closer by his father’s inescapable gravity. 

His finger twitches and he hits the answer button. Possibly an accident, but probably not. 

“Malcolm, my boy!” Martin sounds as bright and cheerful as ever. As if their last visit didn’t happen. As if everything hasn’t irrevocably changed. “I see your sister is reporting on a new murder, may I assume you’re there?”

There’s an ache in his chest. This wasn’t what he expected. “Yes, but I’m busy. What do you want?”

A shadow passes over the tone of Martin’s voice. “Malcolm, is that any way to speak to your father? Sweetheart?” There it is. The acknowledgement. Malcolm ducks behind a tree, leaning against the trunk as the strength drains from him. “Now, we will be talking about the murder soon enough, make no mistake. I can offer some real insights, you know. But the dead are not getting any deader, so tell me, my dear boy, did you sleep well?”

Malcolm has to cover his mouth with his hand as a sob threatens to escape. When he’s gained control, his jaw works soundlessly for a second before he blurts out, “yes.” The nightmares changed, warped, no longer the endless repeating of his childhood trauma. It’s the dream of his last visit before joining the FBI, but this time when the door slides shut in his face and his father’s hand descends on his shoulder, Malcolm welcomes it. He wants nothing more to stay locked up with his father for eternity, at least in his dreams.

Martin drop his voice, intimate, but the sound of his breathing gets louder as he moves closer to the audio device on his desk. “Oh, good. I admit, I did spend quite some time thinking about you, about your last visit. It was nice, wasn’t it, the two of us bonding? Just father and son.” 

This can’t happen here. Not at a crime scene. Not in front of Gil and Dani and JT and Edrisa. He wonders if the guard, David, is there in the cell, listening. If David saw the video. Shame is like acid in Malcolm’s veins.

“I thought about how terribly uncomfortable you must be in those restraints when you sleep. I remember hearing about them during your visits. I can picture it so vividly, your poor body straining against them, sweating, twisting in the sheets. You crying out in your sleep. You’re so very beautiful when you cry, Malcolm.”

From a million light years away, Malcolm hears his name being called. Dani, maybe, but it’s so faint that it simply dissipates before he can comprehend.

He’s so hard it hurts but he doesn’t dare touch. 

Martin’s voice sounds slightly strained, his breathing has sped up. Malcolm pictures him, leaning forward in his chair, perhaps elbows resting on his desk as he leans over the speaker, hanging on his son’s every word. “Speak to me, sweetheart. What’s on your mind.”

Gil and Dani are getting closer, so Malcolm plunges into the surrounding trees, shoes crunching through the fallen leaves, grinding their dry husks under his heels. “I- I want you there,” Malcolm whispers, hoping no one is close enough to hear. “I want you to, to tighten my cuffs... dad.”

Sharp intake of breath. Such a simple word and it gets such an incredible reaction. ”Yes, I’d like to keep you tethered there, all day, would you like that? If I fed you, bathed you, brushed your hair, all while you were strapped down? Would you love to have all of daddy’s attention?”

Malcolm stops and leans heavily against a tree, panting like he’s run a marathon. He glances around and doesn’t recognize anything, doesn’t see the lights of the police vehicles or hear the voices of his friends. Only his father is here with him. Only the Surgeon. “Yes, please,” he says.

“Oh, my boy,” Martin groans. “And would you spread those lovely legs for me?” 

“Oh, god.” Malcolm stumbles, falls to his knees. He’s ruined his suit, inside and out, his dick is leaking so badly he’s certain it must be visible. “Yes. Please, yes.”

“I remember how your mouth tasted. Sweetheart-“ Martin moans, voice low and deep, as he orgasms, a long, dreadful, wonderful sound. Malcolm realizes it’s the first time he’s heard it. It is a fearsome and exquisite noise and the younger man almost comes at the sound of it. 

There’s a hand on his back. Gil. His mouth is moving but all Malcolm can hear is his father panting in his ear. 

“I love you so very much, my son. Come visit soon.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “With teeth” by nine inch nails  
Thank you everyone for reading!

Malcolm is ignoring his phone. It’s late, perhaps after midnight, and he’s exhausted. In bed, lights off, mouth guard in, wrists restrained. Mind racing. Because it just keeps ringing. He’s relatively certain it’s his father calling despite the late hour; perhaps Martin bribed someone. 

It’s been a week since they last talked. A week since Gil found him huddled beside a tree in the dirt, pale, suit damp with sweat, phone hanging loosely in his numb hand. A week of constant monitoring by his surrogate father. A week of uncomfortable lectures regarding the dangers of speaking to Martin Whitly. Thank god Gil never learned the nature of these most recent interactions, or things would have been much worse. 

But still, a week of endless unanswered phone calls and voicemails. 

Angry sometimes. Sweet others. Cajoling and yelling and promises and seduction. The things Martin said, Malcolm promised he wouldn’t listen to them again but he couldn’t help but play them over and over.

The phone stops ringing. He waits for it to begin again, but instead all he hears is Sunshine softly chirping, rustling in her cage. Malcolm frowns. She usually sleeps through the night. The sounds of the city outside his window are normally comforting, but tonight he worries they might be masking sounds in his apartment. Sweat prickles his neck, his upper lip.

He manages to get one cuff undone when he hears the floorboards by his bedroom door creak. Malcolm’s heart stutters and begins to race, adrenaline floods his veins. He rolls and quickly begins trying to undo his other cuff but he’s shaking and his fingers are clumsy.

“I’m very unhappy with you, my boy.”

Malcolm closes his eyes, refuses to turn and look. It’s a hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation. It has to be. There’s no way, Martin is in a secure facility with guards and bars and gates-

The edge of the bed dips. Malcolm turns, one wrist still trapped, and looks at his father. Martin is seated on the edge of the bed, looking down at his hands, his back to the younger man. He has his cream-colored cardigan on.

“You can’t be here. You’re locked up, you, you’re not real.”

Turning to look over his shoulder, Martin smiles. “What was I supposed to do? You wouldn’t return my calls, you stopped visiting. You really forced my hand.” As if to demonstrate, he lifts one hand and waves it casually in the air. The hand is clean, but the cardigan’s sleeve has blood on it. A lot of blood.

“What did you do...” Malcolm can’t tear his eyes away from that sleeve. It feels like his chest is constricting, like his lungs are squeezed empty. 

Martin rounds on him, lip curling as he shoves Malcolm down onto the bed and pins him there by his shoulders. “What I had to. You think I wouldn’t claim what’s mine? You think I wouldn’t come find you?” Martin doesn’t raise his voice, but the menace in it makes Malcolm shrivel inside. It occurs to him perhaps this is when he dies; it’s not how he imagined, how he always hoped, but it’s what he deserves. Then Martin’s face softens, morphs into something more like anxious concern. The change is not comforting. “I called and called. I was so worried. You shouldn’t scare me like that.”

The irony of the statement is not lost on Malcolm.

The situation is so incongruous that all he can do is lay there and stare up into that face, study it, try to reconcile it in his bedroom. They don’t fit. It’s not real. Martin relaxes even further, stops digging his fingers into Malcolm’s shoulders and lifts one hand, gently laying his fingers on the younger man’s face.

“I listened to your messages,” Malcolm says. The words just appear out of nowhere, tumbling from his lips. “I listened to them every day. I couldn’t come, everyone was watching me-“

“Oh my poor boy,” Martin interrupts. “Of course, I should have known. I should have known you wouldn’t try to leave me.” He strokes Malcolm’s face and the younger man turns into it, kissing the palm reverently as it slides past his lips. The hand pauses ever so briefly at the base of Malcolm’s neck, thumb and fingers circling loosely, before lifting away to the unopened cuff. His skilled fingers work the buckle, releasing the younger man’s wrist.

“Dad?” Malcolm asks quietly, and Martin’s eyes lift to meet his, a grin stretching his lips. The pleased look on his face, the spark in his eyes, none of it worries him. Not really. He’s still not entirely convinced he’s not in the throes of a particularly strong hallucination. Perhaps recent events have worked against him, perhaps he had a break from reality. 

Leaning down, Martin gently hugs his son, lifting his back up off of the bed, cradling his head. On instinct, Malcolm wraps his arms around Martin’s neck, nosing into the warm place between neck and shoulder. “Don’t you worry, my darling. Your dear old dad is home to take care of you.” 

Bliss floods Malcolm’s body. He feels warm and thick, full of exhaustion and sweetness. This can’t be real. He can relax. It’s a hallucination. His dad will take care of everything.

“Now,” Martin says into his ear. “I want to play house, does that sound good? Make up for all the time I missed.” Malcolm doesn’t trust his voice. Instead he nods. “There’s my good boy. Now up you get, I need to clean up.”

In the bathroom, Malcolm leans against the wall, not trusting his shivering legs, as his father stands in front of the sink. Blocking the door. Martin shrugs his cardigan off, it pools around his feet, red and white. Smiling, he unzips the front of his prison jumpsuit and, lifting his arms, asks, “a little help, sweetheart?” 

Malcolm doesn’t hesitate. It’s a dream, or a hallucination. He’s free to do as he pleases. A part of him is waiting for the other shoe to drop, usually his hallucinations are terrifying, girls in chains and boxes accusing him of something he doesn’t even remember.

But the way the suit clings slightly to the older man’s broad shoulders. The sliver of wrist visible at the end of the sleeves. Malcolm wants to see more. He wants to see his father.

Stepping behind Martin as the other man turns, he grabs the collar of the jumpsuit and pulls it down, peels it off, kneeling to drag it down his legs so he may step out of it completely, leaving him in a black undershirt and boxers. Martin turns again, facing him, staring down at him. The dim glow of the bathroom light halos him, illuminates his wild hair.

Malcolm stays on his knees. Eyes wide, cheeks flushed, humiliation stoking fire in his belly, Malcolm opens his mouth and waits.

“Oh, darling,” Martin sighs happily. He cups Malcolm’s jaw and slides his thumb into that waiting wet place. Malcolm closes his lips. “You’re such a wonderfully smart boy, you know just what dad wants.”

Experimentally, Malcolm flattens his tongue, testing the weight of the thick digit. He’s never been with a man, never been on this end of these situations. It’s thrilling. He rubs his tongue over the thumb, toying with it, sucking on it a bit. Martin’s hand smells of cheap public restroom soap. The thumb slides ever so minutely out, then back in, and Malcolm likes the drag of it, makes a small happy noise around the thumb and closes his eyes. Without thinking, he places his hands on Martin’s thighs, below the boxers. He rubs up and down, thrilled to feel the warm skin and coarse hair there.

“Malcolm, sweetheart,” Martin groans. His thumb is replaced with two fingers, thrusting quicker, deeper. Malcolm struggles not to gag and loses, shoulders jerking. The fingers leave his mouth, do not return. “I’m sorry, I got carried away. Come here, stand up and let me see you.”

Dreamily Malcolm lets his father pull his sleep shirt off, smiling as if drugged. Martin’s fingers toy with the waistband of the younger man’s sweat pants and he grins impishly; Malcolm’s blush spreads, darkens, and he leans his head against Martin’s shoulder in embarrassment. This is a new kind of vulnerability.

The sweatpants slide down, reveal a hip, and Malcolm can see his father’s chest jerk with a sharp inhalation. Down further and part of his thigh is exposed. The other side is pushed down, too, pushed until it’s under his ass. With a half step, Martin gathers the younger man’s ass in both his hands and squeezes, pulling him closer, making him gasp. His erection is thrust against his father’s hip and he swallows back a shout, channeling his energy into gathering fistfuls of the other man’s shirt.

“You feel so lovely,” Martin whispers to him. “Have you been saving yourself for me? Saving this for your daddy?” To punctuate the question, one of his fingers strokes across Malcolm’s hole.

It’s such an unfamiliar sensation but unmistakably erotic and Malcolm arches his back, pushing his ass out further, chasing the feeling. He nods, unable to speak, overwhelmed.

Martin laughs congenially. “You’ll have to use your words, dear. Now, have you saved this for your father, or do I need to punish you?”

“... saved myself,” Malcolm manages to spit out. The humiliation of dirty talk makes his toes curl. 

He doesn’t want to know what punishment entails.

Stepping back, Martin draws his shirt up over his head, throwing it carelessly to the side, then drops his boxers. He stands naked, unashamed, chest pleasantly furred, arms thick and muscled. Malcolm cannot bring himself to look any further, face burning, ears hot. “All right, into the shower, take off those pants,” Martin says cheerfully, as if this all was perfectly normal. 

Turning to face the shower, Malcolm drops his sweatpants, stepping into the enclosure-style shower. He’s too shy to turn around, instead feels the brush of Martin’s skin against his as he joins him. The glass door bangs against the wall, the shower knob squeaks, the water hisses. It’s hot immediately and Martin sighs in pleasure.

“Dear god, I haven’t had a proper shower in what feels like an eternity. Oh this is heaven.”

Malcolm stares at the wall, watching out of the corner of his eye as his father reaches for one of the many bottles on the shelf built into the wall.

Hands on his back make him jump. The soap is cold, his teeth start chattering. More from anxiety than the chill. The hands work in big, slow circles, working their way down to his waist and then up to his shoulders. Despite his jumpiness, Malcolm relaxes. Tension melts from his neck, slides down his arms, and drips from his fingertips. He reminds himself, this is a hallucination. Martin’s hands slip around to his chest, rubbing just as hypnotically. Malcolm watches them, they are unmistakably his father’s and he is fascinated by their motion.

The thumbs slide across his nipples and he shudders and throws his head back. Suddenly Martin is pressed against the back of him, his slick warm body surrounding him, and Malcolm’s head rests against the older man’s chest. 

“Sweetheart,” Martin murmurs in his ear. He takes Malcolm’s wrists in his hands and presses them up against the wall. “We can’t stay here long, they’ll come looking for me. They’ll want to keep us apart. You don’t want to be apart, do you?”

A lump in his throat chokes him. “No!” The thought is unbearable, he would rather his father kill him now. The disappointed, disgusted looks from his mother and Gil. The endless therapy, perhaps even involuntary committal. Never hearing this voice in his ear again. Better to be dead. 

The intensity of his response must do something for Martin because he crowds in closer and his erection slides against Malcolm’s wet ass. “You are such a good boy, such a good son.” He pulls back just enough to turn Malcolm before pinning him again.

They’re face to face.

Martin’s expression is overwhelming. Smug, aroused, but also kind. In love. Loving. He leans down and kisses Malcolm, pressing so fully, body to body, they might melt into one.

His father grinds against him, their slick wet skin providing painless friction. Martin gathers both wrists in one hand, using the other to cup the younger man’s cheek as they kiss. Malcolm won’t last long, he knows it, just as he knows this is no hallucination. Admitting it to himself, he feels his orgasm coming, feels his body tensing, the blinding lightning filling him. 

“Dad,” Malcolm pants into his mouth. “Dad, I’m-“ Martin grins, growling low in his throat, and that does it. Malcolm comes, it’s startling in its intensity as he pulses all over his father’s hip and thigh.

The hand cupping his cheek slides down, circles his throat, and Malcolm welcomes it, tilting his head back. “My boy,” Martin snarls, his rhythm stuttering, hand tightening until Malcolm’s breath wheezes, and the younger man feels the heat of his father’s come splattering against his body, only to be washed immediately down the drain.

They lean against each other under the water, Malcolm playing lazily with the curls of his father’s hair. He feels, for once, completely at peace. Every shadowed corner of his mind is quiet, every racing circling thought is still. He’s finally happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was the psychiatric institute calling to warn him about Martin...


End file.
